I'll Show Myself Out: Essays on Midlife and Motherhood

at this moment in time my son was just a little over two and we were in the midst of the most animal-like fights over eating, sleeping, and in general: how to be a person. He wanted to be more like a raccoon and I wanted him to be more like a human. And in trying to cajole and beg him to do that I turned into a raccoon myself. A large, female one

It helps me because every day there are contractions of frustration, of anxiety, of wanting to yell, of giving in to yelling, of wanting to run away, of being brave when my son is scared even though I am scared, of comforting him even though I feel I have nothing to give. Drinking has been my ongoing epidural because being a mother involves, in so

The truth is that motherhood is a hero's journey. For most of us it's not a journey outward, to the most fantastic and farthest-flung places, but inward, downward, to the deepest parts of your strength, to the innermost buried core of everything you are made of but didn't know was there.

Just surviving is the success. So much of who I was - my daily habits, my identifying clothing - had to get thrown away in making room to become a mother.